Not a brave fight,
But a certain defeat.
Not heroic acts,
But daily surrender.
Not a close race,
But the frustration of consecutive false starts
And inevitable disqualification
And slow expulsion from this life
With no fanfare, but with a sob and a sigh
That sank like a stone
And pulled her family down
Around her
Each soaked in stunned silence
Engulfed by their memories
Of lost opportunities
Looking for resolve to do better
Somehow.
And only, eventually, finding hope
In each other
In the shared endeavour
To love one another, together
As she once did a forever ago.
Our mother could fill
A cup of tea with love
Like no other.

Ignore the lyrics.

You can't pursue love. You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or to be had -
it's a doing word
that you just have to work at.

Love is a language expressed in deeds
and sometimes needs to get ****** to best succeed,
with a focus on what is needed whatever the cost
it’s a no-greater-love
that a friend gives on the way to the cross.

It’s a by-this-they-shall-know-you love
A lake-side more-than-these love
A one-another-as-I-have love.
A recognition of our debt of love,

So live relaying a reaffirming love,
Fulfill the greatest command of love,
Greet each other with a holy kiss of love
Build each other up with a that much stronger love.

Bear the heavy fruit of love
until it ripens into a truer love
that resembles in some small way
the seed that was that original
no-greater-love,

cos without love,
well, bruv
you and I,
no matter how loud we sing,
our branches are bear,

and we are nothing.

I love a window,
how it changes.
- So full of life,
so far away.

Long before I was her father
she flew
perhaps with fairy wings
or maybe a cherub's -

I can't be sure,
but I know she flew

cos she kept her perspective
and taught me to drink my fill
from each moment
and not move on til
I'd tasted the dregs.

Long after those early lessons
I still need to practice
this most basic of skills.

Greater trusting
With more heart
Lesser leaning
On your own smarts
More recognition
At each intersection
That you can rely
On the map maker's direction

Love me a wisper louder,
hold me a squeeze tighter,
and kiss me with care.
Tread tenderly and
listen liberally
for tonight I need you to lavish
wrap-around comfort
and to let me fall apart a little more
in your tear stained arms

Stilling on a train
Balanced on the lines
Bleeding from the thoughts
Racing through my mind

Bracing both my feet
Ready for the end
Steeling for the crash
Coming round the bend

Feeling like I've lived
Enough for both our worlds
Turning the last page
Loving every word

A pick up at Gatwick
at way past midnight
is a glimpse into the void
tempered only by the joy
and delight of family
reunited

'Of biblical proportions',
a once in a generation
full flood and lasting devastation.

'Of biblical proportions',
an inheritance double portion
from love given in the first person.

'Of biblical proportions',
a full to the brim immersion
after a throwing off of caution.

'Of biblical proportions',
a holyspirit-father-and-son
embrace of all that you have done.

Of biblical proportions
sweeping-up-anything- head-on.
Come Holy Spirit, come.

[We have a biblical proportions kind of God.]

Our God often waits away from the crowd, standing in the margins,
right up against your discomfort of being closer to the edge of others.

He invites you to intentionally trust incidental strangers,
because that’s where He’s made his home,
in the threshold of love, in each adjoining reaction, one to the other.

So go to the margins, to the verge of your comfort, reach out
and get closer to your marginal, desert road, cross-border God.

And there you'll find the ordained moment, the precious place of gentle surprise
and the sudden challenge that heralds adventures beyond what you can ask or imagine.

Step outside your norm, but within His plan for this day

and maybe – just maybe
you’ll meet an Ethiopian.

The stone shimmers,
Giving pause to my blisters,
Until momentum decides
And sole is met by wet promise
Half submerged by passing doubts
And so hope clasps joy with a cold gasp,
Gifting courage
For the next leg.

We believe in one trans-national church.

We believe in an unbiased, inter-racial church of many nations.
We believe in one church of many traditions.
We believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.

We believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
We believe in God-given racial differences.
We believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
We believe in a church that reflects her maker's love of difference.

We do not believe in uniformity.

We believe in the common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
We believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called to serve one God together, saved by one sacrifice once and for all time.

We believe in the promise of a resurrected church drawn from all nations and all generations to meet her bridegroom.
We believe in one eternal wedding feast which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.

We believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so that all his people can come and dwell together.

We believe
in God's Kingdom come.

Amen.

My three gold wedding rings sink deeper
into my 30-years-on skin.

I've seen the youtube tricks
for removing them with wrapped floss,

but I think I'd rather sever
each of them at the final decree,

otherwise I'll need to dispose
of three perfectly good gold rings.

And that seems a waste.

May you fare well during this Advent
May you find much grace as you wait
As your household houses his glory
And friends are well met at your gate

As brave as my poems.
As simple and stark,
concise and complete,
in whole or in part,

yet with room for expansion,
letting you, as you read,
add truth to the equation
with the values you need,

giving permission to speak,
in the space in your head
and to complete the connection
or just take it as read. 

Oh, to be as brave as my poems.

You're not who you were.
You're not who you will be.
You're part way up your steep frail stair
And always will be.

You're a part completed work.
You're perfect as you are.
You're emerging as from aged oak block,
A part-seen piece of art.

You're a faint chime in the wind.
You're a symphony by Brahms.
You're an orchestra tuning up
At last night at the proms.

I love you as you are.
I love all you will grow to be.
As I hold you in my arms
Lost in your newborn beauty.

The faintest click of a radio button
a song that I swear I'd long forgotten

and I journey back to another time
happily quiet, but humming inside

running much faster than blue dinosaurs
I Spy much more than a boy really saw

different than walking, different like flying
moving so fast they can't hear my sighing

tremours of laughter on Radio 2
then singing out loud junior choice tunes

even when songs fade away in the hills
I'd rather be here than back at home still

wary of Jenny's sharp buckled shoes
breathing in clouds from dad's old Saint Bruno

holding on tight to my cool DB5
m'Lady's pink Rolls is off for a drive

I always I Spy with my little eye
3 for a girl and then 4 for a boy

I Spy mum’s constant quick fingered knitting
row after row with Sally still kicking

then I Spy Janet swinging her feet
I Spy other kids in other back seats

I wish for grandma's baked cherry biscuits
I see the first sign that we're near Tonbridge

these are old snatches of life in the 60s
this is me looking back from my 50s

I'll sit still back here, just one back seat song
from family trips where I still belong

Jesus didn't hand you solutions.
Jesus didn't give you your answers.
Jesus asked YOU the questions.
Jesus was and is your answer.

He is the Way the Truth the Life.
He is the River the Bread the Light.
He is the Shepherd the Gate the Vine.
He is Human. He is Divine.

He is the Lamb. He is the Lion.
He is the Word and He's not lyin'.
He is the Servant. He is the Prince.
He is Love and I am convinced

Jesus came to seek and to save.
Bigger than a manger. Stronger than the grave.
Jesus came as God made man...

He - asked - you - a - question -

"What about YOU?

Who do YOU say I am?"

LORD, do not ignore this quiet cry,
this spittle-bubble cry to you.
In my weakness, in my tiredness, from my empty well,
I pour out what little I have toward you.

My murmur is soaked up as it hits the ground,
my words evaporate before they are fully formed,
but before my knees hit the ground
you reach down and hold me.

You smile at my clumsy song,
you reach out and lift me
and with gentle patience you pour your warm milk into my emptiness
and you fill me with your loving kindness.

As I drink in your shadow, as I fill my belly, I find strength and I rise
like a new born calf, like a foal still finding her feet
I stand unsteady, but with my eyes fastened onto you,

I follow you into green pasture,
I walk in your wake and after each few steps you wait
and I see a mother’s pleasure in your eyes on me.

The LORD is a patient mother
the LORD offers the milk of loving kindness to her young
and walks with them into fresh pasture.

wiper beat
indicator rhythm
steady hum
of tarmac
together speak truth,
comfort and song
wise beyond words
miles from home
while the beat sinks in
and we drive on

I speak colour, I smell light
I see at speeds that are out of sight

I speak Blue, I shout Green
I sing Yellow, and Lime in-between

I hear Redder, I taste Whiter
I dance Lilac, I climb Amber

I run Orange, I walk Silver
Saffron, Fuchsia, Turquoise, Magenta

I speak colour, I whisper flavour
I sleep in spectrum, I dream wider

Take a colour, chose a shade
See each light from which you're made.

I drive to the early coffee shop
and order my decaf tea
I don't drink caffeine you see
as my body is a temple
and needs its insides
kept pristine

my cup bears my name with pride
and I slide to the side bar
just a drop of milk
not too much
and skimmed
of course
then stir my conscience
and avoid the cake
I take my takeaway
to my MPV
which has plenty of room
just for me

I start up the engine
to enjoy the air conditioning
sit and start up my thinking
til I'm a venti ready to drive away
more awake and ready
to start a fresh new day

there's barely a hint
of my early bleary eyed squint
and I sing
blissfully oblivious
of my oversized
first world
footprint

My tightrope stretched across the void.
Unimaginable pain on one side;
a new uncharted land on the other.
Balancing anger, pain, loss and a sack of regrets,
I concentrated on the next step and no further.
With no sense of what may lay beyond,
I went on.

Lord of life,
of colour and colour,
of breeze and light.
Lord of bluebell and butterfly,
of birdsong and birds' flight.

Lord of space to think,
of time to rest.
Lord of movement,
of stillness.

I sit here and I confess
complete adoration,
my sunshine celebration
of this, your full spectrum,
this rainbow-wide gifted creation.

I sit and give thanks
for this sustained life,
of greens and blues in yellow light,
of this colour full to the brim life,
of fresh composed songscape,
this God given escape.

I thank you, Lord, for this gateway,
this fresh every morning,
gifted new day.

The map is not the territory, but oh, how we need the map and a trusted map maker.  And who better, but the maker of all.

These are the ingredients for a poem. But like all recipes, you don't need every ingredient every time:

MUSIC
- beat, rhythm & rhyme
IMAGERY
- pictures painted
IMAGINATION
- describing what's not there.

STORY
- the narrative, the journey within the poem
STRUCTURE
- size & shape (line breaks and stanzas)

Also, you may have a inclination to use a particular ingredient to the exclusion of others - so as you recognise this, experiment with those ingredients which you are less confident about using.

Note
- the first three are where poets typically find their freedom to explore ideas within the poem;
- the last two are where the reader typically finds handholds / the anchor to better engage with the poem.

Let bygones be whatever they'll be
and regret a thing of the past,
temper that sorrow
with plans for tomorrow
and invest in friends who will last.

An outstanding old fool,
bulletproof from experience
and too old to die,
qualifies for life-time achievement
by virtue of his still beating heart
and stubborn, winning smile.

Later his tired talent lingers
in the executive departure lounge,
and watches fading reflections of past retrospectives.
leaving him to flee solo on a gulf-stream
over old territory littered with mottled headstones
of honours and moments past;
like rivals once luvved and soon forgotten
through fame and affluence.

I met a tortured poet
In sequins and despair
Her torture was unusual
She's now a billionaire.

Some people prefer to walk,
some will always run.
But the perfect way
to spend the day
is to stroll
arm in arm
in the sun.

Blessed are you who know hungry.
Blessed are you who know thirsty.
Blessed are you who know both
hollow and empty.

I'm not talking to you peckish.
I'm talking to you who are conscious
of just how long it's been
since your last real meal.

Blessed are you when you pass up
on the offer of a fast food snack.
Blessed are you when you don't make do
with leftover scraps.

Jesus says:
Blessed are you who know your true need,
you who know where to fully feed.
Blessed are you who look to me,

- for I am the true life-giving manna,
sent down by your faithful Father-Provider.
I am the fresh-bread of eternal life.
Whoever comes to me -
be ready with a butter knife.
For you will never
go hungry.

This is a love word
that might someday make its way
into a song or perhaps a letter

This is a love word
that’s short of a sonnet
but is written with honest tears
and the signature tightness in my chest
that I’ve grown to trust
as coming straight from the heart

This is a love word,
son.

The Statesman and the Showman
were nervous, but unbowed.
The Statesman spoke of pride
while the Showman played the crowd.

The Statesman and the Showman:
'a can-do revolution,'
but the Statesman was a feint,
the Showman a distraction.

The Statesman and the Showman
both soon ran out of steam.
The Statesman was a fraud,
the Showman a bad dream.

https://thisfragiletent.com/2017/09/18/world-turned-upside-down-event/

This is my lament for London and its young lives lost:


Did you see a tarnished surface
that made you look again
Was it reflected in the lyrics
in the anthem of the Thames

Was the traffic still diverted
Had the Borough lost good men
Were mothers dry from crying
at the anthem of the Thames

Did you see the children drowning
Was the tide too high from rain
Were the barges towed in silence
past the anthem of the Thames

Were the songs drowned out by shouting
Did the words turn boys insane
Did the drum beats beat past midnight
to the anthem of the Thames

Was it echoed through the arches
Did the shadows hide the stains
Did the wounded walk til morning
through the anthem of the Thames

Will you still be here at day break
Do you claim this grey domain
Will you pray for restoration
of the anthem of the Thames

Strong knees and open eyes

Straight back and open ears

Strong voice and open hands

Straight through to the throne of grace

Once every blue moon
Twice each new moon
your soul might well come out to play
a more complex tune
which cries out for harmony
(perhaps for rhapsody)
and tries to wrap its finger
around your heart

Once every blue moon
Twice each new moon
my soul bears it's inner self to the elements
and in doing so finds a kernel
of my younger me
who plays and dances fresh steps
and treads lightly on our path
of aging

Once every blue moon
Twice each new moon
there's a slim and faint opportunity
to discover a you and a me
that hasn't yet found the North Star
or yet found our shared identity
our fresh scar and grasped
the nettle of the future
hand in stung hand

Once every blue moon
Twice each new moon
in the uncomfortable pause between songs
we dance on bruised feet
holding on for a fresh new beat
and refuse to let this new future pass.

Fruit goes off.
It gets mushy and smelly,
losing its colour and beauty - losing its taste,
eventually drying out,
losing all resemblance of what it once was,
only good for waste.

But fruit nurtured by a master grower,
a seasoned gardener,
fruit watched and watered til ripe and at its peak,
this fruit is harvested, fermented,
blended til building to a fuller physique,
brought to full maturity til ready for the table
and the banquet where no one's poor
and no-one is able to maintain a semblance of meek.

- where the gardener and the wine maker,
sit at the top seats smiling their blessing.
And the table branches out
giving room enough for the whole family gathering.

And the feast to end all feasts begins.

Not too big to weep,
not too slow to learn.
Not too old to dance
to a fresh new tune.

Never too late to jump
over my wrong conclusions,
to move at the speed of truth,
and outrun my grand delusions.

Not too proud to notice
the wonder of it all,
never dumb enough
to deny I feel so small.

Big enough to confess
I need to ask forgiveness.
Smart enough to kneel
and get down to business.

I tell ya.
Angels
are not as much of a flight risk
as you first may think.
The cherubim however
are flighty
and way more likely to fly off
at the baby's first cry
Like they've got somewhere else to be.
Just try. You'll see.
Not even a bye-bye.

But angels, oh man.
Angels -
I'm a fan.

You can set your Sat Nav
on an Angel.
Dreamtime or lunchtime,
they'll be your guide.
- Sublime.

Me and Mary
were fans.

- Jesus!
Put those nails down.
If your mum catches you with those, she'll go spare.

What kind of father do I truely want?
What type of dad will do?
Before we continue
And go further with this
What kind of father are you?

Will you save me from scrapes?
Hold tight to my hand
When I clearly want to walk free?
Will you wrap me in cotton
And keep hold of the reins
Or can I risk grazing my knees?

Will you keep me a child
Restricting my choice
Prevent me from breaking the rules?
Or give me the room
To make some mistakes
And maybe suffer a bruise?

Are you one of those fathers
Who is slow to excuse
My foolish brash acts of rebellion?
Or are you quick to forgive
Running arms open wide
Hitching your coat with abandon?

From what I hear from my friends
You really could be
The kind of father I need.
I'd like to see for myself
What it's like to be loved
And be lifted up from my knees.

God stood at the beginning,
On the edge of that first Monday
On the brink of creativity, ready
To step off and risk his reputation 
On a venture that would be his signature dish.

A world stuffed full of flavours,
A realm ripe with potential
For life, for growth,
...For relationship.
But like all relationships, not without risk.
And so, with a smile of anticipation,
He took a deep breath...
And the rest
is history.

However, although unseen, soon
The infection of heaven's rebellion
Snaked it's way in through the gate,
Made friends and prompted a very short debate
So subtle that man was tempted to partake
Of an apple that caused trust to crumble
So humankind would from then on struggle 
And toil to survive outside that paradise lost
Until such time when Christ would step up and pay the original cost
Of the curse we deserved...

But as a foretaste 
Of that preferred sacrifice
God was pleased to accept 
Flame grilled substitutes,
Instituting a family feast
With crisp, pleasing aromas
Of juices that provisionally provided forgiveness
As a foretaste of a greater high priest
A greater promise
That 'The Lord Will Provide' 
For a new world
Fit for his future bride....

God stood 
On the edge of that first Monday
On the brink of creativity
And saw that it would - indeed -
be
good.

I can’t reach you, you far off,
you unborn, you yet to come.
I can’t reach you, touch you.
converse and engage you.
I can’t reach you, embrace you,
you beholders beyond my borders.
But my love invested,
my ripples,
in time, just might.

Honestly,
It wasn't expected.
I've not been concealing my feelings.

They really weren't felt before
That walk in the park.

You lifted your face
To the leaf filtered sunlight,
And unseeing,
You quietly unveiled all I was missing.

As I mature
I'm getting so much better
at distinguishing
between the inspired ideas
and the drug-induced ones.

If only politicians could do the same.

She could have sworn Charlie Chaplin was French.

She had thought so since childhood -
there was something about his movies being sub-titled,
his ****** hair and (she lowered her voice with some shame)
his trouser.

She had loved his films since watching them with her dad
and he never had mentioned the silent star's heritage.
I mean, why would he?

She looked again.  And again there was something
'continental' in his eye liner, in his gait
and in the way he gracefully pivoted
that still fitted her misconception.

But now that she thought more about it,
it made perfect sense,
of course he was not French.
He must have been German.

Then I fell.
I had been so sure of the path
I had mapped
I had planned
I had plotted a route
for my solo adventure
and then I fell
on both my feet

- all because of you

If I May, if I might
Make this wish I wish tonight
I wish I may, I wish I might
Win this clear and outright.
And if I wake to find I didn’t
May I be bold and take the hint.

Do we really need
all the friends we can get?
Are we truely better off
not knowing?
Will it all work out
when we get to the end?
And do we need to get tough
to get going?

The joy of early,
the smile
of taking the moral high ground,
never giving it up
to the jonny-come-latelys.
Giving me time
to sit,
time to ruthlessly ****
with my own bare hands,
striking each minute
into submission.
Never running.
Never running late,
but standing in stillness,
letting the time on my hands
run through my fingers
and pool at my feet
as I wait here
taking my own time.